The illuminatus! trilogy (96 page)

Hagbard laughed. “Atlanta isn’t returning to the States. She’s been a double agent for over two years. Working for me.” (I found the warehouse door the Walsh woman described. It was open, as she had promised, and I wondered about the name on it, Gold & Appel Transfers…) “So is Tobias Knight, and he’ll cop a plea. It’s all been carefully planned, Joe. You only thought bombing your own office was
your
idea.”

“How about Zev Hirsch?” Joe asked.

“He’s having some very educational experiences about this time in New York City,” Hagbard replied.
“I
don’t believe in jails, either.”

And I am trapped, the three of them surround me, and Jubela demands, “Tell us the Word,” Jubelo repeats, “Tell us the Word,” and Jubelum unsheathes the sword, “Tell us the Word, Zev Hirsch …”

“A bombing in New York?” the President asked shrewdly, trying to look as tough as his predecessor.

“Yes,” Saul went on. “As soon as the link with God’s Lightning was clear to us, Barney and I took off for Las Vegas. You can understand why.”

The President didn’t understand any of this, but wasn’t about to admit that. “You headed for Las Vegas?” he asked shrewdly, trying to look as tough as his predecessor.

“Yes,” Saul said sincerely. “As soon as we found out about Anthrax Leprosy Pi and Dr. Mocenigo’s death, we
realized the same organization must be implicated. God’s Lightning—”

“God’s Lightning?” the President asked shrewdly, remembering earlier years when he had been a guest speaker at their rallies.

“And the secret group that has infiltrated them and taken them over, the Cult of the Yellow Sign. We have reason to believe that an English intelligence agent named Chips will be arriving in London in a few hours with evidence against most of the Yellow Sign operatives within their government. You see, sir, this is an international conspiracy.”

“An international conspiracy?” the President asked shrewdly.

And in Central Park our old friend Perri hops from tree to ground, snatches a nut thrown by August Personage, and quickly runs around the tree three times in case this friend-possibly-enemy produces a gun and starts blasting …

While far above the highest mountains in California another aspect of my consciousness soars like winged poetry: and knows, somehow, more about what is coming than Dr. Troll’s seismograph: for I am the last, truly the last. The ecologists are right: mine is not merely an endangered but nearly an extinct species, and my senses have been sharpened beyond instinct by these last years. I circle around, I circle around, I soar: I bank: I float. I am, rare moment for me! not thinking about fish, for my belly is full at present. I circle around, circle around, thinking only about the soaring, the freedom, and, more vaguely, about the bad vibes coming up from below. Must you have a name? Call me Hali One, then: haliaeetus leucocephalus the last: symbol once of imperial Rome and now of imperial America: of which I neither know nor care, for all I know is the freedom of my estate and about that the Romans and the Americans have never had aught but the most confused and distorted ideas. Wearing my long green feathers I circle around. I am Hali One and I scream, not with rage or with fear or with anger; I scream with ecstasy, the terrible joy of my very existence, and the scream echoes from mountain to mountain to another mountain, resonating onward and onward, a sound that only another of my species could understand, and none are left to hear it. But still I scream: the shriek of Shiva the Destroyer, true face of Vishnu the Preserver and Brahma the Creator: for my scream is not of life
or death but of life-in-death, and I am equally contemptuous of Perri and of August Personage, of squirrels and of men, and of all lesser birds who cannot ascend to my height and know the agony and supremacy of my freedom.

No—because they broke Billie Freshette slow and ugly and they broke Marilyn Monroe fast and bright like lightning They broke Daddy and they broke Mama but shit like I mean it this time they ain’t going to break me No even if it’s greater with Simon than with any other man even if he knows more than any other man I’ve had No it can’t be him and it can’t even be Hagbard who seems to be the king of the circus the very Ringmaster and keeper of the final secret No it can’t be any man and it most certainly by Jesus and by Christ it can’t be going back to Mister Charlie’s police force No it’s dark like my own skin and dark like the destiny they’ve inflicted on me because of my skin but whatever it is I can only find it alone God the time that rat bit me while I was sleeping Daddy screaming until he was almost crying “I’ll kill the fucking landlord I’ll kill the motherfucker I’ll cut his white heart out” until Mama finally calmed him No he died a little then No it would have been better if he had killed the landlord No even if they caught him and they would have caught him No even if he died in the goddam electric chair and we went on welfare No a man shouldn’t let that happen to his children he shouldn’t be realistic and practical No no matter how good it is no matter how wonderful the come it will always be there in the back of my head that Simon is white No white radical white revolutionary white lover it doesn’t matter it still comes up white and it’s not acid and it’s not a mood I mean shit you have to decide sooner or later Are you on somebody else’s trip or are you on your own No and I can’t join God’s Lightning or even what’s left of the old Women’s Lib I mean shit that poetry Simon quoted is all wrong No it’s not true that no man is an island No the truth is every man is an island and especially every woman is an island and even more every black woman is an island

On August 23, 1928, Rancid, the butler in the Drake Mansion on old Beacon Hill, reported a rather distressing fact to his employer. “Good Lord Harry,” old Drake cried at first, “is he turning Papist now?” His second question was less rhetorical: “You’re absolutely sure?”

“There is no doubt,” Rancid replied. “The maids showed me the socks, sir. And the shoes.”

That night there was a rather strangulated attempt at conversation in the mansion’s old library.

“Are you going back to Harvard?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you at least going to try another damned alienist?”

“They call themselves psychiatrists these days, Father. I don’t think so.”

“Dammit, Robert, what
did
happen in the war?”

“Many things. They all made profits for our bank, though, so don’t worry about them.”

“Are you turning Red?”

“I see no profit there. The State of Massachusetts killed two innocent men today for holding opinions of that sort.”

“Innocent my Aunt Fanny. Robert, I know the judge personally—”

“And he believes what the friend of a banker should believe.”

There was a long pause, and old Drake crushed out a cigar he had hardly started.

“Robert, you
know
you’re sick.”

“Yes.”

“What is this latest thing—glass and nails in your shoes? Your mother would die if she knew.”

There was another silence. Robert Putney Drake finally answered, lanquidly, “It was an experiment. A phase. The Sioux Indians do much worse to themselves in the Sun Dance. So do lots of chaps in Spanish monasteries, and in India, among other places. It’s not the answer.”

“It’s really finished?”

“Oh, yes. Quite. I’m trying something else.”

“Something to hurt yourself again?”

“No, nothing to hurt myself.”

“Well, then, I’m glad to hear that. But I do wish you would go to another alienist, or psychiatrist, or whatever they call themselves.” Another pause. “You
can
pull yourself together, you know. Play the man, Robert. Play the man.”

Old Drake was satisfied. He had talked turkey to the boy; he had performed his fatherly duty. Besides, the private detectives assured him that the Red Business really was trivial: The lad had been to several anarchist and Communist
meetings, but his comments had been uniformly aloof and cynical.

It was nearly a year later when the really bad news from the private investigators arrived.

“How much will the girl take to keep her mouth shut?” old Drake asked immediately.

“After we pay hospital expenses, maybe a thousand more,” the man from Pinkerton’s said.

“Offer her five hundred,” the old man replied. “Go up to a thousand only if you have to.”

“I said maybe a thousand,” the detective said bluntly. “He used a special kind of whip, one with twisted nails in the ends. She might want two or three thou.”

“She’s only a common whore. They’re used to this sort of thing.”

“Not to this extent.” The detective was losing his deferential tone. “The photos of her back, and her buttocks especially, didn’t bother me much. But that’s because I’m in this business and I’ve seen a lot. An average jury would vomit, Mr. Drake. In court—”

“In court,” old Drake pronounced, “she would come before a judge who belongs to several of my clubs and has investments in my bank. Offer five hundred.”

Two months thereafter, the stock market crashed and New York millionaires began leaping from high windows onto hard streets. Old Drake, the next day, ran into his son begging on the street near the Old Granary cemetery. The boy was wearing old clothes from a secondhand store.

“It’s not that bad, son. We’ll pull through.”

“Oh, I know that. You’ll come out ahead, in fact, if I’m any judge of character.”

“Then what the hell is this disgraceful damned foolishness?”

“Experience. I’m breaking out of a trap.”

The old man fumed all the way back to the bank. That evening he decided it was time for another open and honest discussion; when he went to Robert’s room, however, he found the boy thoroughly trussed up in chains and quite purple in the face.

“God! Damn! Son! What is
this?”

The boy—who was twenty-seven and, in some respects, more sophisticated than his father—grinned and relaxed.
The purple faded from his face. “One of Houdini’s escapes,” he explained simply.

“You intend to become a stage magician? My
God!”

“Not at all. I’m breaking out of another trap—the one that says nobody but Houdini can do these things.”

Old Drake, to do him justice, hadn’t acquired his wealth without some shrewdness concerning human peculiarities. “I begin to see,” he said heavily. “Pain is a trap. That was why you put the broken glass in your shoes that time. Fear of poverty is a trap. That’s why you tried begging on the streets. You’re trying to become a Superman, like those crazy boys in Chicago, the ‘thrill killers.’ What you did to that whore last year was part of all this. What else have you done?”

“A lot.” Robert shrugged. “Enough to be canonized as a saint, or to be burnt as a diabolist. None of it seems to add up, though. I still haven’t found the way.” He suddenly made a new effort, and the chains slipped to the floor. “Simple yoga and muscle control,” he said without pride. “The chains in the mind are much harder. I wish there were a chemical, a key to the nervous system …”

“Robert,” said old Drake, “you are going back to an alienist. I’ll have you committed if you won’t go voluntarily.”

And so Dr. Faustus Unbewusst acquired a new patient, at a time when many of his most profitable cases were discontinuing therapy because of the monetary depression. He made very few notes on Robert, but these were subsequently found by an Illuminati operative, photostated, and placed in the archives at Agharti, where Hagbard Celine read them in 1965. They were undated, and scrawled in a hurried hand—Dr. Unbewusst, in reaction-formation against his own anal component, was a conspicuously untidy and careless person—but they told a fairly straightforward story:

(In Ingolstadt, Danny Pricefixer and Clark Kent are still staring at each other over Lady Velkor’s sleeping body when Atlanta Hope bursts into the room, fresh from a shower, and throws herself on the bed, hugging and kissing everybody. “It was the first time,” she cries. “The first time I ever really made it! It took all three of you.” On the other side of Kent, Lady Velkor opens an eye and says, “Don’t I get any credit? It takes Five that way, remember?”)

Mama Sutra was only thirty then, but she streaked her hair with gray to fit the image of the Wise Woman. She recognized Drake as soon as he wandered into the tea parlor: old Drake’s son, the crazy one, loaded.

He motioned to her before the waitress could take his order. Mama Sutra, quick to pick up clues, could tell from his suit’s wrinkles that he had been lying down; Boston Common is a long walk from Beacon Hill; there were shrinks in the neighborhood; ergo, he hadn’t come from home but from a therapy session.